Hourglass
by Ara Lenn
Summary: Both the Sparta PD and Newman County Sheriff's Department find themselves in a race against time when a Deputy goes missing.
1. Prologue

**Hourglass**

As always, this story is dedicated to the memory of Hugh O'Connor (April 7, 1962-March 28, 1995).

**Prologue**

"Read me that license plate number again," Lonnie said. He listened while Parker read him the information, following with his eyes each number and letter on the plate of the car that sat at the foot of the bank.

"Yep, this is the car, all right," he said. "No sign of the owner. Send out the necessary people, will you? I'm going into the woods to take a look around. Thanks."

Lonnie climbed down the embankment and peered through a broken window. At first glance, there didn't appear to be any blood in the car, a car which belonged to Deputy Christine Surillo. She had been missing for several days, and the discovery of her car on this crisp autumn afternoon was the first physical clue as to what had happened to her. Lonnie was praying to find her alive. She was the favorite of Sheriff Gillespie, and Lonnie could see what a strain this was putting on his former Chief.

"She wouldn't have gone without a fight," Bill had said of the possibility that she had been kidnapped.

He kept mentioning that it had been Christine's day off, that otherwise she would have been with him. Lonnie couldn't tell if Bill was blaming himself or just stating the obvious out of frustration. Probably it was a little of both.

Lonnie walked ahead slowly, searching diligently for any sign that someone had been here, but after a while he turned and headed back to his car. When he emerged from the woods, he found officers from both the Sparta PD and the Newman County Sheriff's Department going over the scene. Sheriff Gillespie was there as well, looking over the car with a determined gaze.

"We'll find her," Lonnie said.

"It's _how _we'll find her that worries me," Bill replied.

A search party was arranged to cover the woods, but the rest of the week passed with no news. Lonnie found himself lying awake on Sunday night with the nagging feeling that someone was manipulating them all. No blood was found in the car, nor evidence of any kind of injury or struggle, which probably meant that Christine wasn't in the car when it crashed, and if that was the case, then maybe someone had put the car there intentionally to misdirect the police. He kept going over it all in his head, searching his memory for anything he might have overlooked until, exhausted, he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke from a dream a short while later. He couldn't quite remember _what_ he had dreamed, but he had something in mind about a story he had heard on the news several months ago. A female officer had gone missing from the Jackson Police Department. Working with the FBI, they had managed to find the officer, but by that time she was dead of starvation in the basement of a house previously thought to be abandoned. Lonnie had never heard whether they captured the culprit or not.

On Monday Lonnie decided to skip his morning jog and go into work early. The first thing he did was to call the Jackson PD and inquire about their case.

"We never did catch the guy," he was told. "We don't even have any leads."

"I may have one," Lonnie said, "but I don't have anything to go on, other than the hope that this leads me to our missing Deputy. She's been gone for a week now, and the only clue we have is her car, which crashed by the side of the road with no blood or evidence of any kind in it."

"You could be on to something," the officer said. "The FBI is going to want to know about this."

"I hesitate to contact them," Lonnie said. "Our department hasn't worked well with them in the past. But in the end we may need their resources."

"If you're dealing with the same guy, I think you'll need all the resources you can get. This person went to a lot of trouble to keep from being discovered. When we found our officer, she was tied up and beaten, and we were a day too late to save her. If this same guy took your officer, then you're racing against the clock right now."

"Thanks for all your help," Lonnie said.

Lonnie hung up the phone and sighed deeply. He was the closest thing Sparta had to a detective right now, and he felt a great pressure to solve this case, even though it was far from being his case alone. The thought of Deputy Surillo being beaten and starved in a basement somewhere made him all the more determined to find her. He felt as if there were an hourglass before him, taunting him, daring him to try and solve the riddle before the sands ran out.


	2. Chapter I

**Chapter I**

"Hey, Lonnie. Lonnie!"

Lonnie started at the sound of his name, realizing with a jolt that he had been falling asleep at his desk.

"Looks like you've been putting in one too many extra hours this week," Bubba said. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep?"

"I just wanted to look over these county maps again," Lonnie said, "just in case there's something we missed."

"Look, I know how you feel," Bubba said. "We all want to find Christine, and we're all working over time to do it. Every man in this department is working overtime just to stay caught up on the everyday cases. Same goes for the Sheriff's Department. And on top of that, we have the manpower and resources of the FBI."

"Somehow I don't feel reassured by that," Lonnie said. "The FBI has been after this guy for over a year and hasn't even come close. And frankly, I don't think they really believe our case is relevant. These other cases across the state they only linked after finding the victims, and this would be the first time a Deputy was taken. All the other cases were city police."

Bubba crossed his arms and sat down on the edge of the desk. "I can look at those if you want."

"Thanks," Lonnie sighed. "Maybe I _should_ just go home and get some sleep. I'm starting to see double."

"Sweet dreams," Bubba said.

"I doubt that, but thanks. Lonnie gathered his things and left the department to the night shift. He wasn't sure why he felt such a connection to this case. Of course he was concerned for his former chief, of course he didn't want an innocent woman to come to harm or a painful death, but was it more than that? He didn't know Christine very well. He saw her whenever he chanced to run into Sheriff Gillespie during working hours, from time to time he saw her at the gym or on the street and said hello. She was a very pretty Puerto Rican woman, very sweet but a tough officer. That was about all Lonnie knew about her. He felt guilty now that he hadn't engaged her in a conversation one of those times that he'd run into her, gotten to know her a little better. Now he might never have the chance.

When he reached home, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed still in his uniform, and he slept a fitful sleep marked by dreams of Christine and faceless serial killers. He was jarred awake by the strange images after only an hour and a half of sleeping. With a deep groan, he rose from the bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He didn't feel he could get back to sleep now, so he took a shower and changed into a t-shirt and jeans. He tried to watch t.v. for a while, but it only made him feel more restless, so he got his badge and his gun, put on a jacket, and went out for a late night drive. He cruised aimlessly around Sparta, haunted by the disturbing images he had seen in his dreams, random but vivid, unsettling. After a half-hour of driving, he was passing by Parker Williams's house, and seeing the light on, he decided to stop in.

"Is something wrong, Lonnie?" Parker asked at the door. He stood in his pajamas and bathrobe, and he was rubbing his eyes.

"I saw your light on and thought I'd take a chance. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was up reading a detective novel," Parker said. "Guess I lost track of the time. Come in. You're not still on duty, are you?"

"No, at least not officially," Lonnie replied. "I went home and went to sleep, but my mind kept working."

Parker offered him a seat on the living room couch.

"Can I get you anything?" Parker asked. "Tea? Warm milk?"

"No, thanks. Truth is I wanted to get as far from my bed as possible."

"Bad dreams?"

Lonnie nodded. "I've had nightmares before, but never like these. They were the kind that leave you with a strange disquiet, even after you tell yourself you're awake and it isn't real. It's like being a kid and thinking there are monsters under your bed."

"Maybe your dreams _were_ real in a way," Parker said. "Maybe they were trying to tell you something. I've heard of that sort of thing happening."

"You mean like a psychic dream? I don't believe in that kind of nonsense."

"We can't always go on just cold hard facts and deductive reasoning," Parker said. "A little faith could go a long way."

"Faith." Lonnie frowned. It was an almost humorous coincidence. Agent Phillips of the FBI had said something like that to him earlier in the week: "Truth is, Lieutenant, most cases like this are solved by plain dumb luck. Not brilliant detective work or sure-fire evidence, just dumb luck."

"You know, in between the dreams of serial killers, I kept seeing the Phantom of the Opera." Lonnie laughed slightly. He felt a little delirious.

"You mean your mind is looking at this killer as a phantom? That's clever," Parker said.

"I suppose," Lonnie said, "but I was thinking that the link was the name Christine."

"Oh, I see," Parker said. "Well, that's clever too. I remember seeing _The Phantom of the Opera_ once, at the old playhouse. Too bad that place closed down. But I hear that some fellow bought it not a month ago –maybe he'll fix it up and reopen it."

"Some fellow," Lonnie repeated. "You don't know who the man was?"

"I can't remember his name," Parker said. "I think he was from out of town."

"I should head back," Lonnie said. "Thanks for the company."

"Any time, Lonnie."

Lonnie said goodnight and got back in his car, but instead of going home, he drove to the old playhouse. There were no cars around, and the place looked as dark and dilapidated as it ever had. Lonnie parked a little ways down the street and got out his flashlight. He made his way stealthily around to the back of the building and bent down to look into the cloudy basement window. He couldn't see anything in the pitch black, and even with his flashlight, the window was too caked with grime to allow much visual access, but luckily the window was open a crack. Lonnie carefully pulled it out and slid though the narrow space. He took a few steps, and even before he could get his flashlight turned on again, he tripped over something substantial, something soft but firm. It could've been a human body.

It could have been, but it wasn't. When Lonnie switched on his flashlight, he realized that it was only an old punching bag. He pressed forward, shining his light into every corner and crevice of the room, slowly making his way to the area beneath the stage. As he neared the door, he heard strange scratching noises. He pulled out his gun and cautiously opened the door.

He must have jumped a foot off the ground when they came rushing at him. Rats. "Stupid," Lonnie whispered to himself. He looked around. Nothing but old props and costumes. He was beginning to feel more and more that he was grasping at straws, seeing clues where there were none. Dreams, luck, faith…it would all be too perfect to find her here, like one of Parker's detective stories. But just to be sure, he checked the dressing room and auditorium upstairs. No sign that anyone had been here lately.

Lonnie returned to the basement and to the window whereby he had entered the building. He noticed something there that he hadn't seen before. It was an old dusty hourglass, sitting alone on a rickety table. Again he scolded himself for being so jumpy, for being so weak-minded. It was only coincidence.

He turned off his flashlight and climbed back through the window. He was glad to be on a backstreet, where likely no one would see him –no one sober anyway –he wanted to keep this little foray of his a secret.


	3. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

"Has anybody seen Lieutenant Jamison this morning?" Chief Forbes asked.

"Well, Sir, I saw him at about two this morning," Parker said. "He stopped by my house. He was having trouble sleeping."

"And since then?"

"No, Sir. He said he was going home, and that was the last I heard from him. He _has_ been putting in a lot of hours lately; maybe he just overslept."

"By two hours?" the Chief replied.

"I suppose it's possible," Bubba chimed in. "I've never seen him work so hard on a case."

"He isn't answering his phone," the Chief said. "Would you mind going over to his place to check, Captain?"

"Sure, Chief."

"Thanks."

Bubba made the short drive to Lonnie's house. Lonnie's car was gone, but Bubba went to the front door to check anyway. He knocked several times and called Lonnie's name –no answer. He tried the doorknob –it was unlocked. It wasn't like Lonnie to leave his door unlocked. Bubba went in and called out again. He checked every room, but there was no sign of Lonnie Jamison. Most of Lonnie's neighbors weren't home now. The ones that Bubba was able to question hadn't seen anything. Bubba got back in his car and called in to the station.

"You there, Parker?"

"Yeah, Bubba, go ahead."

"No sign of Lonnie at home. Tell the Chief I'm going to drive around for a while and look for him."

"Bubba, I thought of something," Parker said.

"What's that, Parker?" Bubba asked.

"Last night before Lonnie left, we were talking about the old playhouse. I know it wouldn't make much sense for him to go there without telling anybody, but I just thought I'd mention it."

"I'll check it out," Bubba assured him.

Bubba left Lonnie's house and drove to the old playhouse. Any misgivings he might have had about Parker's suspicions were silenced by the familiar sight of Lonnie's red sports car in the back parking lot of the place. Bubba leapt from his seat and went to check out the car. It was definitely Lonnie's car, but Lonnie wasn't in it, neither did there appear to be any evidence of foul play inside. Bubba called in his findings to the station and looked for a way to get into the building itself. All of the doors were locked, but he found the window through which Lonnie had crawled the night before. It was a narrow window, difficult to get through; he knocked over the table, smashing the old hourglass to bits.

Bubba grimaced at the damage he had done, but he saw something else that was of more interest to him beneath the bits of glass. It was obvious that someone had been here, for there were footprints in the dust. Bubba followed the prints through the paths that Lonnie had walked only hours before, but like Lonnie, he turned up nothing in his search but dust, rats, and uneasy feelings. When he emerged from the building again, the place was swarming with officers –Sparta PD, Sheriff's Department, FBI. Agent Phillips was standing by Lonnie's car, and so was Parker. Parker looked extremely displeased with the agent.

"Anything?" Phillips asked.

"Somebody's been here, that's all I can tell you," Bubba said. "C'mon, Parker. I thought we'd go question the shopkeepers around here, see if anybody saw or heard anything last night."

"We're already on it," said Agent Phillips.

"Any theories?" Bubba asked.

"Oh, he has a theory, all right," Parker said.

"Well, what is it?" Bubba asked.

"He thinks Lonnie is responsible for –"

"I never said he was responsible, I said he could be," Phillips protested.

"Say what?" Bubba asked.

"We have to look at all the possibilities," Phillips explained. "By all accounts, Lieutenant Jamison has been behaving erratically. Now it seems he's gone missing."

"Listen to me, and listen good, Agent Phillips," Bubba said. "I have been way more accommodating with you than I have a tendency to be. I have deferred to your expertise since you've had this case, or something like it, longer than we have, but I am not going to stand here and listen to you paint one of our finest officers as a criminal."

"The FBI doesn't come here to antagonize your department," said Agent Phillips, "but it seems to happen every time we have dealings with each other. You men never learn, do you? I understand that everything that happens in a small town is likely to be personal, but objectivity is essential in our line of work. It's a fact that violent crimes are often committed by people we know."

"You have no evidence against Lonnie," Bubba said.

"Oh, don't I?" Phillips replied. "I've had him under surveillance for the past week. He was the one to find Deputy Surillo's car, he's been the one to find every lead in this case. His schedule and his behavior have been strange, even according to those of you who know him. And I noticed about him almost as soon as I met him that he's quiet, taciturn, cold even. Connecting this case with the other murders could be his way of routing suspicion away from himself."

"Like I said, you have no evidence," Bubba said. "Excuse me, Gentlemen, but we have two officers missing, and I for one intend to find them while they're still alive."

Bubba turned his back and walked away from the agent without waiting for a reply. Parker followed close on his heels.

"What are you going to do?" Parker asked.

"I don't know," Bubba sighed. "I need to think. You say you and Lonnie talked about this place, and there are recent footprints in the building, so it's reasonable to assume that Lonnie came here of his own accord. Maybe he found something in there, and somebody wanted to shut him up. But then, why would the car be left here for us to find?"

"Maybe the suspect's not as smart as we think?" Parker suggested. "Maybe he just didn't count on Lonnie showing up and was caught off guard."

"Maybe. I think we ought to go and double check this whole area, no matter what Agent Phillips says. I think our FBI agent is grasping at straws as much as anybody in this case. He's got nothing on Lonnie."

Lonnie thought he heard a familiar voice, but it sounded distant. _Bubba_? He opened his eyes slowly, but his surroundings remained dark. He struggled to remember where he was, how he got here, and why he felt dull aches all over his body. He suddenly realized that he was lying on the floor. _I must've been really desperate for sleep_, he thought. He tried to remember if he had taken any sleep aid. Images flooded back to his mind, but he couldn't make sense of them or even tell which ones were real and which ones were dreams. Christine, the Phantom, the hourglass…the playhouse, Parker, the darkness…He had a vague memory of standing by his car, seeing a man glaring at him from a shop window, driving into the parking lot to turn around…

He tried to move, but something was restraining his wrists and ankles, and he couldn't speak for a cloth in his mouth. He must have found his man, he thought, or else some other psycho who liked to kidnap cops, and from the grogginess that still lingered, Lonnie guessed that he had been drugged. He still couldn't remember how it had all happened. What mattered now, though, was getting out.


	4. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

Bubba waited for a truck and two cars to pass before crossing the street to rejoin Parker on the other side. He had been through every shop on both sides of the street, questioned every person he saw, but he had learned nothing. Unable to stand the suspense, Parker had returned to Lonnie's car to watch the progress of the search. He looked doleful now as Bubba approached him, and he shook his head, speechless for once.

"Well, Captain, what do you make of my suspicions now?" asked Agent Phillips. He handed Bubba a plastic bag with a small item in it. "We found that under the driver's seat."

Bubba looked closely at the item in the bag. It was a torn piece of fabric with a nametag attached –Christine Surillo's nametag.

"This proves nothing," Bubba said vehemently.

"Nothing?" Phillips repeated. "This is the first piece of real evidence we've had."

"It's too convenient. Somebody obviously wanted us to find it. How do I know _you_ didn't put it there?"

"He has a point," Parker said finding his voice at last. "You've been the head agent on every one of these cases."

"I wouldn't be that stupid," Phillips said. "Besides, why park the car behind an obscure building on a backstreet?"

"I don't know, you tell me," Bubba said.

"There's always a fatal mistake in a killer's career. Maybe this is it."

"Maybe it is," Bubba said. "But this partnership is over. Why don't we just try and stay out of each other's hair, uh?"

The more Lonnie's consciousness flooded back to him, the more he became aware of his surroundings. He realized that not only was he lying on the floor, but the floor was moving. He was in some sort of vehicle –moving down the road, from the feel of it. He struggled to his knees and began to work at the ropes that held his wrists and ankles bound. The vehicle lurched as it ran over a pothole in the road, and Lonnie was thrown back down to the floor. Sharp pains shot through his body at the impact, but he raised himself once more and resumed his work to free himself. In between the creaks and groans of the truck, he thought he heard a soft moan. _Christine_! He worked more frantically now. With his wrists tied behind his back, he could only fumble awkwardly with the knots, but out of sheer determination he managed to get free. He jerked the cloth from his mouth and made his way on hands and knees in the direction of the moan. In a few minutes his fingers touched the soft warm skin of a woman's arm. She flinched at his touch.

"It's all right," he said. "I'm Lieutenant Jamison. I'm here to help you."

He felt for her face and removed the gag from her mouth, and then he untied her wrists and ankles. He could only guess what state she was in, since he couldn't see her. He helped her to raise up, and he held her in his arms.

"Christine?" he said.

"Yes," she answered in a whisper.

"We'll get out of this," he assured her.

"He'll kill us both," she said. "When we get where we're going, he's going to put a bullet in your heart. You got too close."

_He must've been in one of the shops near the playhouse,_ Lonnie thought. He still couldn't remember exactly what had happened in that parking lot. A man had approached his car as he was turning around, had asked for assistance; after that, everything to this point was a blank.

Lonnie leaned back against the wall, still holding protectively to Christine, and he concentrated on how he was going to get them out of this. They seemed to be inside something like a mover's van. No doubt they were stuck here until someone opened the doors from the outside, but just to be sure, he laid Christine back down gently and went to check. Once he confirmed that there was no way out, he returned to his former place and took Christine in his arms again.

"This will all be over soon, I promise," he said.

He hoped he sounded convincing. He just wasn't sure how soon "soon" would be. Until the vehicle stopped moving, he felt there was little he could do. Christine was trembling in his arms. She was still wearing the pants to her uniform, but other than that she had only a tank top. Lonnie put his jacket on her, but he continued to hold her for the sake of comforting her.

After a while the ride became bumpier, and the truck slowed and finally came to a halt. Once again Lonnie laid Christine on the floor and went to stand by the exit. The only weapon he had now was the element of surprise, so he was going to make it count. The adrenaline in his body was rising with every passing second. He waited anxiously, crouching by the doors. As soon as the doors opened, he lunged at the person, and the two of them went to the ground with a heavy thud.

Christine lay at the other end of the truck and struggled to see what was happening outside. She had been in the dark so long that the light hurt her eyes. She listened for sounds. For a moment there was silence, but then there were the sounds of a scuffle –grunts, punches, the rustling of clothes. She wished she could tell who had the upper hand, but she was too weak to get up, and she was afraid of what she might see if she did watch. She heard a cry of pain, and then there was silence. She managed to pull herself trembling to the back of the truck and peer over the edge. She wasn't sure what she was looking at; her vision was blurred.

"This one's a lot of trouble." It was that gruff voice that she despised, the only sound she had been hearing for the past two weeks. "None of this was part of my plan. I'm afraid I'm going to have to get rid of him now. What should it be: bullet or blade?"

The killer held his already bloody knife over the motionless Lieutenant and gripped the handle tightly as if in preparation to strike. Christine whimpered as she watched her last chance of salvation fade away.

"Don't look away, Christine," said the killer, "or you'll be sorry."

With his other hand, he pointed Lonnie's gun at her.

"Go ahead and pull the trigger," she said.

Her vision was still blurry, but she could see enough to notice the sudden movement on the ground. Lonnie grabbed hold of the killer's arm and tried to turn the knife away from himself. The killer turned the gun towards Lonnie, but since he held the weapon in his less dominant hand, his grip was tentative. Christine was disconcerted by the melee that ensued; with her limited vision, she could not keep track of the two men. Several shots were fired –one of them hit the truck. Finally, the knife was plunged into one of the men, and all once again was silent.

"Lieutenant?" Christine called. Her voice was barely audible.

"He's dead." Lonnie stood up and walked in her direction. "It's all over. The phantom is gone…"

He stopped just in front of her. There was blood on his shirt. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped to the ground.


	5. Chapter IV

Chapter IV

"Lieutenant?"

Christine scrambled down from the truck and sat beside the unconscious man. She placed her hands over the wound in his side and watched the blood trickle through her fingers. She looked about for something she could use to stop the bleeding. She felt barely conscious herself. Supporting herself against the side of the vehicle, she made her way to the front of the truck. The killer had placed a bag of clothing and toiletries on the passenger side floorboard. Christine rummaged through the things and found a shirt and a few bottles of water, but there was nothing else of use. She made her way back to Lonnie, lifted his shirt and used some of the water to wash his wound. She used the shirt she had found in the bag to bandage it.

"Lieutenant," she said again. "Jamison!"

Lonnie slowly opened his eyes and looked up at her.

"We have to get out of here," he said. "Do you know where we are?"

"No," she replied, "and this truck isn't going anywhere. Looks like a couple of the tires were shot out during your fight."

"Then we'll just have to walk," Lonnie said. "It can't be far to the road."

He raised himself up, gritting his teeth through the pain. This was the first opportunity he had had to get a good look at Christine. She was somewhat gaunt, and there were bruises on her face. He suspected there would be more bruises concealed beneath her clothes; he could see the hint of one peeking out from under his jacket on her right shoulder. She tried to smile, and she offered him a bottle of water.

"Thanks." He took a few draughts from the bottle. "C'mon, let's go."

Lonnie got back on his feet and helped Christine to hers. Lightheaded and weak as she was, Lonnie had to support her in order for her to walk. He was in pain, and the blood from his stab-wound was seeping through the makeshift bandage, but he kept his demeanor calm for Christine's sake. She seemed to be growing weaker by the minute. Finally, Lonnie picked her up and carried her the rest of the way.

When they reached the road, they found themselves no closer to learning where they were. There were no signs, no buildings, and no cars, and the surroundings were nondescript. Lonnie sat down by the side of the road to rest and to think. He was hoping that a car would come their way soon. Time had been running out for Christine for the past two weeks, and now time was running out for him too.

"We know Lonnie's not guilty," Bubba said. "We assume he went to the playhouse directly after he left Parker's house, and that he searched the building and found nothing. Now, assuming that he was taken by the same guy that took Christine, I think it stands to reason that if the suspect wasn't holding her in the playhouse, he was holding her in one of the nearby buildings."

"That's a lot of assumptions, Captain," said Chief Forbes.

"Well, it's all we've got. I think we ought to get search warrants for every one of those buildings."

"Can you be sure Lonnie didn't find anything in the playhouse?"

"There was only one set of footprints," Bubba replied. "Nobody had been in that place in a long time."

"All right," said the Chief. "You and Parker go to the courthouse and see what you can do."

"Yes, Sir."

Bubba left the Chief's office and gestured to Parker, who was on the phone. It took some pleading on their parts, but they managed to get the search warrants they needed from the judge, and having accomplished this step, they returned to the station and assembled teams, and finally headed back to the shops neighboring the old playhouse. The searches took the better part of the day. Halfway through, Agent Phillips showed up and sought out Captain Skinner to demand why he hadn't been informed of this new development.

"I thought I made myself clear," Bubba said. "We have our investigation, you have yours."

"You're being really petty, Captain," said the agent. "Are you interested in solving this case, or in protecting your department?"

"Excuse me, Bubba," said Parker. "Nobody seems to be able to get in touch with the owner, a Mr. Jake Beckett."

"Jake Beckett?" Phillips echoed.

"That's right," Parker said. "He rents this building –just started renting, in fact, about two months ago."

"That's impossible," Phillips said. "Jake Beckett is dead!"

"Well, apparently, somebody by that name left this morning in the truck to make a pickup, but no one's seen or heard from him since."

"I think I may have seen him this morning," Bubba said.

"Where was he making this pickup?" Phillips asked.

"He didn't say," Parker answered.

"Do you have a description of him?"

"No, Sir, but I suppose I can get one," Parker said. "Do you want a glass of water or something, Agent Phillips? You don't look so good."

"You know this Beckett guy?" Bubba asked.

Phillips shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what I know anymore."

"Any more information on this guy, Parker?"

"Just that he spends a lot of time here," Parker said.

"Let me guess," said Bubba. "He spends most of that time in an off limits area downstairs?"

"That sounds about right," said Parker. "The guys are searching it right now."

"Is there anything you want to tell us, Agent Phillips?" asked Bubba.

"I thought our partnership was over," Phillips replied.

"C'mon, let's you and me go for a little walk," Bubba said.

Bubba led the agent outside so that they could talk a little more privately.

"We have two officers missing," he said. "This goes far beyond you or me or our personal differences. If you have information, anything at all, you had best speak up. You went as white as a sheet at the mention of this Jake Beckett, and I want to know why."

"Either there's some sort of copycat, or God is playing a twisted joke on me." Phillips reached into his wallet and handed Bubba a picture of himself and a pretty female. "That's Lauren, my fiancée. She was an officer in the Jackson PD. She was the first victim of this cop killer."

"I'm sorry," Bubba said. "But if this case is so personal to you, why have you worked so hard to prove that our case is unrelated to yours?"

"Because I thought I took care of it," Phillips said, "and I don't want to find out that I took revenge on the wrong man. Lauren's case went cold because of the lack of evidence, but I kept investigating on my own. I never found any hard evidence, but everything led me to believe that Jake Beckett was responsible. The FBI questioned the man and let him go, so I took matters into my own hands. I shot him myself. I watched him die. He can't possible have survived."

"Well let's just say that he did," Bubba said. "How would we go about finding him?"

"He wouldn't travel on main roads if he could help it, but that doesn't narrow it down very much."

"Can you think of anything else, anything at all? Do you know of any way we can help our chances of finding him?"

"I'm sorry, I don't."

Lonnie sat by the road and listened for the sound of approaching cars, but the only sound he heard was the rustling of leaves in the forest behind him. He paid little heed to the noises until suddenly he noticed that the sound had changed, had grown more pronounced. He turned his head sharply. There was someone there behind the trees. Lonnie pulled Christine closer in a protective embrace. The man he had left for dead stepped out of the woods with the knife still sticking out of his abdomen, and he pointed the gun at them, the gun that Lonnie had left lying by the truck. _Nice move, Lonnie_, Jamison thought to himself. He heard Christine whispering something in Spanish; it sounded like a prayer. _I hope you're listening, God_, he prayed silently. _A little intervention would be nice right about now. _He wanted to say to Christine that he was sorry –sorry that he had failed, sorry that he had been so negligent –but he didn't want her to think that he had given up, not after everything she had been through.

He had little time to think, but it seemed he didn't need it. Either God was listening, or it was a really lucky coincidence. The killer squeezed the trigger, and nothing happened.

"Time's up," Lonnie said.

Once again, Lonnie lunged at his opponent and tackled him to the ground. Both men were weakened by stab wounds. Lonnie managed to get hold of the knife, but it soon slipped out of his grasp again. Christine crawled forward and picked up the weapon, and she waited for her chance to aid her rescuer. The men rolled into a ditch and traded punches until it seemed that both of them would faint.

"Tell Agent Phillips," the killer whispered, "that he shot the wrong man."

Lonnie leaned back against the side of the ditch and watched his opponent's eyes close, but Christine could see the killer's hand tightening around a nearby rock. She held the blade of the knife in her hand, and she aimed and launched it into the ditch, striking her kidnapper square in the heart.

"Nice shot," Lonnie said.

"Thanks. My father taught me."

It was with great difficulty that Lonnie climbed out of the ditch and rejoined Christine at the road.

"We have to start walking," he said. "We can't sit here and wait; not one car has passed in the time that we've been here."

"But you're still bleeding," Christine protested.

"We have a better chance of getting help if we get to civilization," Lonnie said. "We've made it this far; we can make it a little longer."

He spoke with such conviction, she almost believed him. But he was only a few steps down the road before he collapsed.

"I just need to rest for a minute," he said.

He bent his head over his knee and closed his eyes. _Please God_, he prayed, _even if I have to give my life to do it, let me save Christine_. He rested there for a few minutes and then pulled himself to his feet again, and together he and Christine set off walking. He didn't know how many miles they had been –maybe it only seemed like miles –before a small gas station came into view. Lonnie carried Christine to the door and set her down on the pavement to rest, and he went inside the store and stumbled to the counter.

"I need to use your phone," he said breathlessly. "I'm Lieutenant Lonnie Jamison, Sparta Police. I have Deputy Surillo outside. We need an ambulance…"

The room was spinning. He could hold off no longer. He sank to the floor in front of the counter, and all went black.

"There's a resemblance," said Phillips, "but this isn't the man I shot."

"Maybe it's a family business," Bubba said.

"I have to get out to the crime scene. You coming?"

"We already have officers out there, from two cities and the county," Bubba replied.

"I'm really sorry about your Lieutenant," Phillips said. "I was way off base with him. I wish Lauren had been so lucky as to have a cop like him on her case."

"I'm sorry too. But no amount of sympathy or apologies can excuse what you did, so don't expect me to just forget it."

"It's easy for you to say that now," Phillips said.

Agent Phillips turned to go, leaving Bubba alone in the morgue with the killer's corpse. Bubba let him go; there were more pressing matters to him at the moment, namely the condition of his friend and colleague Lonnie Jamison. Sergeant Parker and Sheriff Gillespie were already at the hospital awaiting news on Lonnie and Christine, and Bubba wanted to be there too. He tried not to be too anxious. The report he had gotten said that Lonnie was unconscious, but alive. He had lost a lot of blood, but he was alive. So was Christine.

Sheriff Gillespie met him in the hall at the hospital. "Is it true the man who did this is dead?"

"Yes, Sir," Bubba said. "I just came from the morgue."

"I almost wish he were alive," said Gillespie. "I would have liked to get my hands on him one good time."

"Seems to be a lot of that going around," Bubba said. "Any word on Lonnie?"

"Not yet."


	6. Chapter V

Chapter V

"He shouldn't be alive. After all that he's been through…I don't throw this word around lightly, but we may be looking at some sort of miracle here. Of course, he'll have to stay in the hospital for a few days –"

"Can we see him, Doctor?" Parker asked.

"I don't think now is the time for questioning."

"We just want to see him," Bubba said.

"All right, go ahead. Just keep in mind that he's very weak."

Bubba and Parker nearly ran down the hall to get to their friend's room.

"If you were fishing for a promotion, Lieutenant, I don't think you had to go to _these_ lengths," Bubba said.

Lonnie smiled weakly. "How is Christine?"

"She'll be fine," Parker said, "thanks to you."

"We did it together," Lonnie said. "I can't take all the credit. The final blow was Christine's. I wouldn't have guessed that she was an expert knife-thrower. She's really something."

"Yeah, that's what Bill tells us," said Bubba. "He's with her right now. She was asking about you too."

"Is Agent Phillips around?" Lonnie asked.

"Ah, no, he went out to the crime scene," Bubba said.

"Before he died, the suspect said to tell Agent Phillips that he shot the wrong man. Any idea what that means?"

"Actually, I do have an idea," Bubba said. "I think I'll go deliver the message right now. I'll come back later, all right?"

Once Bubba had gone, Parker pulled up a chair next to Lonnie's bed.

"At least now you'll be able to get some sleep," Parker said.

"We'll see about that," said Lonnie.

"Christine is safe, the suspect is dead. I'm sure you'll sleep just fine. And as soon as you're feeling better, we should all celebrate. I'll throw a party for you and Christine."

"That would be nice, Parker." Lonnie was already drifting off to sleep, in part from the medication he'd been given, in part from sheer exhaustion.

"Sweet dreams, Lonnie," Parker said.

"Jake Beckett wasn't his real name," Chief Forbes said. "Seems Jake Beckett was his brother. The man in our morgue is Jeremy Beckett. Both men had a history of mental illness, but it seems Jeremy was the one with a fixation on female police officers."

"So Agent Phillips mixed up the two brothers," said Sheriff Gillespie.

"Looks that way."

"I can't say I blame the man for seeking out revenge," Gillespie said. "It's a shame the only man getting charged with murder is a victim too, but at least the killing spree is at an end."

"Please, no more pictures," Lonnie moaned.

"Just one more," Parker urged. "A group shot."

"All right, one more."

Lonnie had been photographed, filmed, and interviewed more times than he could count since getting out of the hospital. He wasn't comfortable with all the attention; as far as he was concerned, he hadn't acted any differently than anyone else on the force would have. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had been chosen as the one to rescue Christine Surillo. All the dreams he had had, the heightened intuition, and the relentless drive to keep going until the case was solved, regardless of the cost…

Parker had arranged a party for Lonnie and Christine at his own house, just as he had promised to do. Now the guests of honor were surrounded by friends and family. Aside from the tearful handshake Bill Gillespie had given him in the hospital, it was Lonnie's proudest moment when he received hugs from Christine's parents.

"You taught your daughter well," he told them. "You should be proud of her."

After a while, Lonnie managed to break away from the crowd and slip outside for some air. He was not the only one with the idea, however; Christine was standing out on the porch alone, looking up at the stars.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" Lonnie asked.

"No, not at all, Lieutenant," she said.

"Can I make a request?"

"Of course."

"Stop calling me Lieutenant, and call me Lonnie?"

She smiled back at him. "Okay, Lonnie."

"There's one more thing I'd like to ask…"

"Yes, Lonnie?" she said after a minute of silence.

"Well, I…ah, I just wanted to ask how you were doing. Your bruises seem to be healing well."

"Yes, they are," she said. "I think the worse injuries are in my mind. I find myself looking over my shoulder all the time now."

"That will fade in time," Lonnie said, "just like these bruises."

He touched her cheek lightly with his fingers.

"You're probably right," she said. "And how are you doing?"

"Well, thanks. I'll probably keep a scar where the knife went in, though."

"Consider it a mark of heroism," Christine said.

"Shall we go back inside?" Lonnie asked. "We are the guests of honor, after all."

"Sure," she said.

"After you."

The End…

Sequel coming soon!


End file.
